


wet hot endorian summer

by jehoney



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Archery, Campfires, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, I'm not joking - Freeform, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Smoking, Strap in, Summer Camp, Summer Camp AU, aragorn and legolas are bffs, aragorn smokes like a chimney, boromir is a social media influencer, frodo and sam are just crushing hard, gimli and legolas is gonna be complicated, i've forgotten how to tag quite honestly, it's a muhfuin, legolas is a gay icon, legolas is a stoner, literally based on a piece of fanart, no betas we die like mne, please read it's so much fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 12:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16096124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehoney/pseuds/jehoney
Summary: Endor Camp comes alive in the summer.That isn’t to say the place is dead the rest of the year round - school groups roll in for any half term or holiday, and even in term time the place can be filled with lethargic, middle-aged team building workforces – but in the build up to summer the place seems bristling with a particular, fizzing, impossible-to-place energy. As the evenings lengthen, Rivendell Cabin, heart of operations, seems to settle comfortably into the earth, and the deep campfire amphitheatre itches to be lit again. The seven other cabins and Shire Mess Hall let their shadows peel away in the yellowing light, Fangorn Forest becomes a place of dappled sunshine through leaves, and the distant surface of Lake Lothlorien glosses over with a sheen of expectation.Camp season is on its way.i hope you're ready for this absolute nightmare of an extended summer camp au based on rhymewithrachel's stunning fanart





	wet hot endorian summer

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO!
> 
> i posted my last fic over a year ago and apologies to everyone who was invested in it because it's probably never getting finished BUT i'm back i'm at uni and i'm regressing to my 7 year old self who literally kinned legolas greenleaf before they realised he could be the gay icon they needed.
> 
> this is entirely thanks to @rhymewithrachel on twitter and instagram (and probably tumblr but i haven't been on that hellsite in years) for drawing aragorn and legolas as tired (but oh so trendy) camp counsellors. so i wrote it.
> 
> this first chapter is a bit messy bc i was just tryna introduce everyone and mr tolkien sure did love his Characters. 
> 
> if u take issue with my characterisation i can only apologise bUT my house does contain over 30 books relating to middle earth so it's not like i haven't done my research (sorry i'm just Defensive)
> 
> also i know eomer and eowyn should have acute accents on their 'e's i'm a fake francophone and cba to put them in
> 
> AFTER THAT UNECESSARILY LONG INTRO i really hope you enjoy this i had so much fun writing it!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> xoxo

Endor Camp comes alive in the summer.

That isn’t to say the place is dead the rest of the year round - school groups roll in for any half term or holiday, and even in term time the place can be filled with lethargic, middle-aged team building workforces – but in the build up to summer the place seems bristling with a particular, fizzing, impossible-to-place energy. As the evenings lengthen, Rivendell Cabin, heart of operations, seems to settle comfortably into the earth, and the deep campfire amphitheatre itches to be lit again. The seven other cabins and Shire Mess Hall let their shadows peel away in the yellowing light, Fangorn Forest becomes a place of dappled sunshine through leaves, and the distant surface of Lake Lothlorien glosses over with a sheen of expectation. Camp season is on its way.

The place is holding its breath, that’s how Legolas sees it. Every year the drive up to the camp seems more beautiful, but he’s not sure whether that’s just because every year the world outside of Endor’s bubble becomes increasingly taxing and frighteningly adult. When he started working, four years ago, it was a free summer to earn some cash, convince his dad that he wasn’t completely idle, and flesh out his university applications. Now, he’s just glad to not have to think about his finals.

Whether due to his growing need for escapism or not, seeing the carved sign for Lake Lothlorien nailed to its gnarled tree makes him stupidly excited. The lake is a mile indicator for the main campsite, sitting in its expansive clearing set deep into the forest, and the sign is a welcome sight after his half a day of delayed trains and sweaty packed carriages. The truck weaves through the trees, churning up dry dust from the gradually-less-surfaced road and Legolas knows this year is going to be a hot one – he’s seen the record-breaking forecasts. He regrets wearing long sleeves for the sixteenth time today, reapplies his factor 50 to the back of his neck and pretends he can’t hear Treebeard scoff from the driver’s seat.

The groundskeeper is a towering, gruff, but ultimately fond man, with his magnificent namesake beard rivalled by none and a green cap seemingly permanently attached to his scalp. He doesn’t believe in suncream, as he’s told Legolas year on year, which probably accounts for the blistering red of his cheeks and the tops of his ears. Legolas wonders idly if, underneath all that facial hair, the remaining skin would be as pale as his own.

But regardless of the man’s semi-serious derision at his city-boy behaviour, Legolas has made the mistake of going without sun protection, and doesn’t intend to make it again. It may or may not have been something to do with his thirsty seventeen year old self confronted with rugged, tan-complexioned, twenty-three year old hiking instructor Aragorn, convincing himself that if Aragorn can hike five miles in the blazing heat with only a sheen of sweat to protect from the UV rays so can he, and ultimately ending up looking like a broiled lobster (and feeling like one too). If he learnt anything in his first summer, it was that no crush, especially an ultimately unsuccessful heterosexual one, is worth sunburning for.

He has since tried to convince Aragorn like a broken Cancer Research record that ‘just because you tan, doesn’t mean you haven’t got melanoma!’, with little success. He thinks maybe he and Treebeard should start a club.

So, the three bottles of factor 50 are in with the rest of the essentials: his embarrassingly expensive organic shampoo bar, about a hundred hair ties, a starting stash of raw energy bars (they’ll make a run to the town to stock up), his moisturiser (see shampoo for description) and three baggies that he’s got to stretch across three weeks (and a certain weed-leech called Gimli). Assessing the contents of his rucksack, he thinks he might be somewhat of a parody of himself.

Then there’s a duffel full of his clothes – awful for creases but he’s not going to attempt a wheeled suitcase again – and his longbow, which was a ridiculous amount of fun to take on public transportation. He knows he’s supposed to be using the camp equipment, to make it easier to show the kids how to use it, but since he dipped into his supposedly ‘locked’ savings and bought the beauty, he can’t face relying on the stiff bows that Endor provides. They also don’t have his name carved into the limb.

After about ten minutes, the trees peter out and the fire pit and cluster of cabins on the distant grass become visible. He pulls his left earphone out as he shields his eyes against the light, picking out the few figures huddled around their bags by the campfire. Even with his sunglasses on, the midday sun is too bright to distinguish the figures, but he’s almost certain the one in the ridiculously heavy army jacket is Aragorn. He’s the only person who could wear a beanie in this heat.

His suspicions are confirmed as he steps down from the truck and slings his bags and bow over his shoulder.

“Oi, Beanpole! You’re late!”

The yell reaches him from across the grass and he thanks Treebeard before turning and jogging to reach the group. Now that he’s close up he can see the two other figures in detail: Boromir, the broad set ropes and climbing instructor, and a slighter figure Legolas can only assume is the brother he’s spoken so much about. He’s got the same dark complexion, and thick black hair, only where Boromir’s is kept short, his brother’s falls around his face pretty impressively, and it goes without saying that he’s equally as handsome, in a more boyish kind of way.

Aragorn is the one that shouted, and as Legolas approaches he flicks his spent cigarette somewhere in the direction of the fire pit and fixes him with a stern stare.

“Counsellors were supposed to be here by eleven,” he says, and Legolas checks his phone quickly to see he’s almost two hours late.

“Counsellors aren’t supposed to smoke,” he shoots back, and is dragged into a tight one-armed hug. When they pull back, they grin at each other. Aragorn looks much the same as he does every year – facial hair too long to be considered stubble, not full enough to warrant a beard, twinkle in his eye and army jacket rife with tears and patches. Legolas isn’t sure whether the coat is vintage or Aragorn’s an actual veteran, but nothing about that would be surprising in the slightest.

The guy fixes him with an impressive raised eyebrow and gestures to his rucksack.

“Like that bag isn’t well stocked with greenery.”

“Touche. Trains are hell, not my fault, take it up with the god of public transportation.” He turns and grins at the other two guys, “Hey, Boromir.”

“Howdy, Beanpole,” Boromir replies, and after they’ve hugged he gestures to his companion and confirms Legolas’ speculation, “This is Faramir, the baby brother.”

“Pleasure.”

Faramir extends a hand to shake, but Legolas goes in for another hug regardless, pulling away to see him slightly flustered. He notes this with amusement and attempts to make him feel more comfortable.

“What have they got you on?”

“Wide games.” The guy responds, and Legolas hums in approval. He was set to helping Boromir with the same on his first year, before they realised not only was he qualified in archery, but that putting him on it meant Galadriel could work at the lake full time, so a swift promotion followed the next summer. He thinks Faramir’s going to have a challenge corralling the whole camp population for Capture The Flag if a hug gets him flustered, but he’s sure he’ll adapt. He has to; kids can be fucking vicious.

He turns back to Aragorn as he’s rolling another cigarette.

“Rough summer already?” he asks, and is met with a withering glare.

“Just stocking up on nicotine before I put on my squeaky-clean camp face.”

Aragorn gives a slightly frightening showcase of said expression as he lights up, and glances at the bow slung over Legolas’ shoulder.

“She’s pretty.”

“Thanks. Stole my inheritance and bought a longbow.”

“Hardcore.”

Legolas gives him a smirk in response to the sarcasm, and takes a scanning look of the site. They’ve got a good few hours before campers arrive in time for dinner, but the place still seems oddly quiet. He tries to mentally run through who’s on staff this year.

“Where’s everyone else?” he asks, and Boromir looks up from where he’s adjusting the strap of what Legolas can only assume is one of those dumbass barefoot simulation running shoes. Every year he seems to reveal a host of newer (and uglier) fitness inventions that he’s been paid to promote to his frankly horrific social media following, and Legolas hopes money is the only reason he’s wearing them. They’ve got toes, for fuck’s sake.

“Gimli’s nesting,” he explains, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the cabins, “Galadriel and Celeborn are at the lake, and Eomer texted to say he and Eowyn are picking up the two newest horses in the box - they should be back any minute.”

The siblings live and work at the camp year-round, tending the stables and working on the off-season. They’re frighteningly good at what they do, having been raised on a range themselves, and whilst most of the counsellors can ride, Legolas included, they’re like something out of a fucking fantasy film. There are at least a dozen horses at Endor, for counsellor’s free use according to ability and schedule, but Legolas can’t imagine even Eowyn’s relentless work ethic stretching to care for them all, so it’s a good thing Treebeard and his crew are on hand to help out. It does seem kind of dreamlike, though – getting free food and board to do something you’ve loved and excelled at since childhood.

 “God, I wish this could be my year-round job.” he sighs.

 Aragorn scoffs, “You’d get sick of it.”

“Speak for yourself, nomad.” he shoots back, but knows deep down that Aragorn is exactly right. The magic of Endor is that it seems to exist for three months of the year and then vanishes from his life, so the only experience he has of it is like an eternal summer haven. He also knows that archery is pretty much the only hobby he’s stuck with for more than two months at a time, but he’s not going to give Aragorn that satisfaction. Besides, the ranger’s state of seemingly perpetual rootlessness makes the whole ‘afraid of commitment’ conversation more than a little hypocritical.

“No, you’re a fickle gay, Greenleaf.” Aragorn taps a finger to the side of his nose, and Legolas laughs, “I know you better than you know yourself.”

“Homophobe.”

Hoisting his bags over his shoulder, Boromir claps a hand on Faramir’s shoulder and cuts between them, “Oi, fickle gay, show my brother to Osgiliath Cabin, would you?” he asks, and Legolas bristles slightly at the guy’s assumption that he’s allowed to partake in that particular strand of banter with as little admonishment as Aragorn. They’re not really good enough friends for it, but it’s too early in the summer to start that fight, so he rolls his eyes and mock salutes.

“Will do, Beefcake.”

“Fuck off, Greanleaf.” comes the reply.

He beckons for Faramir to follow him as they head across to the cabins, and the sound of a vehicle pulling up the dirt road reaches them. Two sandy haired figures jump out, and head to the back of the horsebox, and Legolas can see that the two of them are now even more indistinguishable now that Eowyn has chopped her hair into a very impressive pageboy cut. It suits her much better than the horse-girl ponytail ever did, and it’s working a treat on Faramir, too, as his eyes track her haltering the horse and bringing it down the ramp. Too bad she’s only got eyes for a certain hiking ranger, and unlike Legolas, can’t seem to tell when to let it go.

He smirks at the kid nearly falling over his own feet and tells him to get a move on. Then, turning to walk backwards and yell one last time to Aragorn, he calls:

“Don’t smoke too much – save your voice for first campfire tonight!”

He receives a middle finger in response.

* * *

 

> _iMessage_
> 
> _sam the wise: how’s el beauteous camp :)_
> 
> _Frodo: beauteous_
> 
> _Frodo: weirdly quiet_
> 
> _Frodo: only ppl here are counsellors_
> 
> _Frodo: weird seeing Strider smoke his way through a whole pack of baccy when the kids aren’t around_
> 
> _sam the wise: I can imagine_
> 
> _Frodo: really wish you were here :(_
> 
> _sam the wise: me too :(_
> 
> _sam the wise: don’t have too much fun without me!_
> 
> _Frodo: I don’t think there’s any chance of that_

 

Frodo Baggins locks his phone and sinks deep into the large leather swivel chair, propping his feet up on the desk in front of him. His uncle’s office is sweltering, even with both the windows open all the way, and counting the dust in the streaming sunlight makes for a great procrastination activity. There are about four boxes he’s supposed to be organising, or rather, that he should have organised by the time the campers arrive at 6, but he’s been distracted by Sam sending him stupid memes and the frankly beautiful vintage edition of _The Catcher In The Rye_ he snagged in a charity shop and is already reading in preparation for next year. So at least his procrastination has been productive in other ways.

When he was presented with the opportunity to attend camp this year, after having already reached the cutoff age, he jumped at the chance. He had not realised the work that being Uncle Bilbo’s assistant was going to entail. His uncle works as the camp’s financial director, which includes (as far as Frodo understands it), collecting fees, organising the admittedly admirable bursary scheme and regulating expenditure amongst a whole host of other things he doesn’t want to know, lest he be roped into helping out with them. But it means he gets a free summer at his childhood happy place, and hopefully a bit of cash in the long-run.

The really shit part about it, though, is that his best friend is too old for camp too, so he’s stuck by himself. Sam, Merry, Pippin and he have been going to camp together since they can remember, and whilst the other two have still got this year left, he spends the majority of the rest of the year with Sam too, and being at camp without him makes him feel a bit hollow. At least technology means they aren’t completely cut off, even if Sam’s FaceTime seems to have been perpetually unavailable for the past three days.

Frodo gets up from the chair and pulls his sticky t-shirt away from his lower back, grimacing, before assessing the situation. He figures he’d better make a dent in the box of receipts, so at least they know the children coming in are actually supposed to be there, and so, with his headphones in and Hippo Campus playing, he starts.

It’s mindless and menial, and actually quite therapeutic; within the best part of an hour he’s down to the last few files in the box and has only managed to overheat minimally. There is quite a flashy computer on the desk, so he’s not sure why Bilbo still has to document in analogue, but that’s a question for another day, and it would probably put him out of a summer job. As he slots the last sheets into the alphabetised concertina folder, he allows himself a satisfied smile and dance as the last song plays out.

So absorbed is he in his music that he doesn’t notice the figure leaning against the doorframe.

He starts, and pulls out his earphones so violently that the rubber cover from the left one remains stuck in his ear.

“Hey.”

It’s Arwen, the camp director’s daughter, new first-aider and, Frodo’s almost certain, part-time Chanel model. She raises an arched eyebrow as he fishes around in his ear for the lost piece of rubber and blushes to the tops of his ears at the fact that she probably just witnessed the most mortifying dancing crime he’s ever committed.

“Hi, Arwen,” he manages, and she smirks.

They only met this morning, so in his defence he hasn’t had the chance to become immune to her mesmerising pale eyes, or obscenely shiny dark hair that lies in one of those fancy complicated six strand plaits over her shoulder. With time, he thinks he’ll probably be able to conduct a semi-eloquent conversation so long as he never injures himself and has to be alone in the medical office with her.

“Gandalf says to go get some lunch,” she says, and of course she’s not here to talk to him of her own volition because why on earth would she be, “He was weirdly insistent about it.”

Frodo takes this to mean that the adults want to have adult conversations about adult things and they really want him to scarper so that they can do so. If it means leaving the rest of these boxes for a bit, he’s happy to check out the Shire Mess Hall for the best part of an afternoon, so he grabs his book and his phone and heads out. As he makes his way to the door, he sees Arwen walking down the corridor the Camp Director’s office and decides to embarrass himself one last time.

“Can I get you any food?” He calls, and she stops to smile at him again.

“I’m good, but thanks.”

Ugh.

It’s only when he reaches the mess hall that he realises how hungry he has been, and he hopes whoever they’ve hired this year on catering staff doesn’t mind him crashing in to get himself some lunch and that the kitchens have some makings of a decent sandwich. There’s definitely noise from the kitchen as he picks his way through the long cafeteria tables, and the smell of something delicious in the air that he distinctly hopes is what’s on the menu for dinner.

And as he rounds the corner, there’s someone very familiar in there too.

“Sam!”

There’s no doubt about it that it’s his very own Samwise Gamgee, beaming at him from the other side of the counter. He rushes to give him a tight hug, then pulls back.

“What are you doing here?”

Sam looks somewhat sheepish and gestures to his apron and hair net, and it clicks.

“Got a job working on kitchen staff.” He explains, and Frodo can’t help but laugh, half at his outfit and half at the perfection of it – both of them somehow back at camp together. Just as he was dreading the thought of facing it alone, Sam shows up, all green eyes and good hugs and saves him. He doubts they’ll be able to join in on camp activities like before, but he’ll offer his services to assist, or they’ll strike up some kind of deal with Merry and Pippin to sneak in. God, Sam’s new access to unlimited food is going to be so useful.

“Wait,” he thinks about the past three days with Sam studiously avoiding his FaceTime calls, “Is this why you wouldn’t call me all week?”

“Well, partly,” Sam admits, “I only got here last night, but I knew if I spoke to you I’d end up spilling and I wanted it to be a surprise…”

His expression can’t help but make Frodo beam. There’s something about everything that Sam does that can make him smile, no matter the occasion. He notices underneath the net Sam’s got his sandy hair in tiny rubber-band bunches, and he realises this is actually his dream summer job, perfect for his culinary college applications. Gandalf, as camp Activities Director, has probably put in a good word for him – he’s a good friend of both Sam and Frodo’s families. Suddenly his earlier insistence makes a whole lot more sense.

“So…” Sam begins, and opens up one of the industrial fridges to reveal a treasure trove of food, looking back at Frodo expectantly, “Lunch?”

* * *

 

Gimli cannot be found in either Erebor Cabin, or the mess hall, so Legolas can only assume he has died. If he didn’t know any better, he would say that he hadn’t arrived yet, his room’s so pristine, but he knows Gimli and his organisational prowess, and the opening of his bedside drawers confirms that he has moved in in meticulous detail. He also notes a large bottle of scotch that he’s either going to beg a great deal of, or use as leverage in case he needs something and Gimli doesn’t want to get fired.

Legolas’ room, or rather his broom cupboard tacked onto the end of Mirkwood Cabin, looks slightly like a bomb site, and he’s been at camp for less than a day. That’s skill. He envies Gimli’s neatness and also his foot less of height that lets him sleep comfortably in the tiny beds, but most of all he envies the way Gimli’s managed to sneak away without Boromir asking him to do a million and one favours. As the youngest counsellor, having found out that the ‘kid’ Faramir is actually older than him, Legolas is still considered the errand boy, and his afternoon has been packed with (on top of running inventory of all the archery equipment) re-screwing the climbing holds to the trees and checking miles of rope for wears and tears.

The only place left to check is the crafts cabin, so he sets out across grass.

Calling it the crafts cabin seems a little reductive. It’s not like Gimli spends his summers making macaroni art (at least, not with the campers, what he does in his spare time is up to him). The cabin is home to all of the woodworking, leather crafts and metalworking, with who knows how many vices, saws, hammers and packets of plasters. It actually seems like more hard work to control a whole cabin of kids with wood files than to observe just one with a bow and arrow, and some of the older campers come out with some really beautiful creations by the end of summer. That, and, if Legolas has the time to spare, he gets to watch Gimli chopping wood into manageable sizes in a sinful vest top. But that’s a guilty pleasure he’s keeping to himself.

The craftsman tried to suggest the term ‘workshop’ for the cabin, but it never really caught on. Like their personally irritating camp nicknames, it’s stuck as a place that is perpetually underestimated in the rankings of camp activities. Still, better to be underhyped than overhyped; Legolas can’t count the kids that show up and are disappointed that they’re not allowed to shoot at something alive.

Sure enough, as he sticks his head around the door to the crafts cabin, he spots Gimli in the far corner, sorting out the varnish tins.

“Hey, Shortstack.”

“And here I was praying they’d finally fired you.”

Gimli doesn’t even turn around, which is probably a good thing because he’s wearing that vest top and Legolas has had nine months without having to deal with the way his tattoos stretch over his biceps.

“Charming.” He says, and gives himself a second to admire the view, before he moves across the room to hop on the counter next to the man. Gimli’s been letting his hair grow out, half of it’s twisted on top of his head in the perfect presentation of a millennial manbun, and he’s pretty sure his beard has got beads braided into it. So that’s new. He’s concentrating hard on whatever organisational system he’s got going – it seems to be unnecessarily complicated for Legolas, who prefers to leave his things strewn on any available surface, floor or otherwise. Once the tins are organised, he moves down to the sink to begin washing paintbrushes, and whilst it was amusing at first, Legolas is becoming increasingly miffed at being ignored.

“Oi.” He prods at the Ouroboros encircling Gimli’s arm, and is waved away.

“I’m trying to concentrate.” Gimli responds, gruffly and Legolas rolls his eyes. He swings his legs, watching with amusement every time Gimli flinches at his heels bumping the cupboard door. Usually, if he can wait it out, he’s able to strip away Gimli’s annoyance, and return him to something more characteristic, but it doesn’t look like that’s happening today.

“Fine.”

He knows where he’s not wanted, and if Gimli’s going to be dick he’s not going to beg for the attention, so he jumps down from the counter and heads for the door.

“Sorry.” The word stops him in his tracks, and he turns to see the man running a hand through his beard and furrowing his brow. “I was told I was getting all new supplies this year, but Bilbo says budget can’t cover it.”

“Ah.”

There’s a pause, and Legolas realises this is the most explanation he's getting. Gimli is way too good natured (most of the time) for this to be believable, but Legolas goes with it for the sake of a smooth conversation.

“Can cover two new horses, though.” He replies, drily and Gimli huffs whilst crossing his arms.

“Evidently.”

“Bastards.” He spits, and crosses his arms to match.

They look at each other, poses mirrored, until the failsafe way of relating to Gimli, through semi-serious profanity, succeeds. His stormy expression cracks momentarily, and a flash of his rogueish smile comes through. Soon enough, Legolas is getting his ribs crushed in a hug that rivals Aragorn’s, and that has been previously proven to lift him clear off the floor.

“How are ya, Beanpole?”

Legolas grimaces as his feet are set back on the ground.

“I’d really like a different nickname this year, actually.” He says, but Gimli chuckles.

“Too bad. Come to fetch me to greet the mass invasion?” he asks, and Legolas can see the green eyes scan his face to get a good look at him. At least he had the decency to stare at Gimli when he wasn’t aware of it.

“No, actually.” The shorter man raises his eyebrows, and Legolas suddenly feels a bit stupid, regretting not going with that as an excuse, “Just wanted to say hi. You’ve been elusive.”

“I’ve been busy.” Gimli clarifies, and Legolas raises an eyebrow.

“Busy after campfire tonight?”

He realises that it sounds like an oddly suggestive question, so, in explanation, pulls a spliff out of his sock. Gimli makes a face.

“How long has that been in there?”

“Long enough to sufficiently imbue it with my sweat.” He replies, and Gimli’s grimace intensifies. In his defence, all contraband should be kept on person in case of room searches or curious campers, and socks are failsafe.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I have learned from the best. So?”

 Second to Aragorn, Gimli is the person he misses most outside of camp, mostly because he hasn’t got anyone to chat stoned bullshit with half as well in his everyday life and he really hopes he’s not going to get blown off just so that the guy can spend a thrilling evening rearranging wood files. Fortunately, Gimli nods.

“Yes. Obviously.” he says, and smiles again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He claps a hand on Legolas’ upper arm, and turns back to his sink. Evidently the conversation is finished, Legolas thinks, somewhat annoyed.

“Cool.”

He hovers in the doorway, then decides to not make a complete tit of himself, so just leaves, calling over his shoulder: “Camper E.T.A is ten minutes. See you out there.”

The arrival of the campers is not referred to as an invasion without good reason. In some inexplicable logic, Elrond thinks it’s a good idea to have all of the coaches from the nearest train station arrive at the same time as the car drop off, resulting in an annual parking nightmare that Legolas isn’t sure why no-one has thought to sort out to this day.

Thus, the counsellors have to assemble on the grass in some kind of display of strength if they have any chance of organising the sudden rabble that descends upon them, and Aragorn seems to be steeling himself early.

Legolas approaches as he’s perched on the end of one of the campfire logs, lighting another cigarette, and he’s actually not sure the guy’s going to make it until the end of the month if he continues at this rate. He’s picked up his clipboard register, and has shoved a pencil behind his ear. Way across the grass Galadriel and Celeborn have made a rare venture up for the official start of camp and stand, practically glowing, in the early evening sun. It really is the calm before the storm.

Legolas sits himself down heavily beside the ranger, and it’s only now that he realises how sore his legs are from a day of relatively untaxing walking and he’s surprised at how out of practise he is. He pulls his hair down from the haphazard bun he tied it in probably more than eight hours ago now, in the sticky heat of a train carriage, and begins to braid it loosely. If it’s possible to braid in annoyance, he’s doing it -the conversation with Gimli has put him in a bad mood, to the point where he’s not looking forward to getting stoned after the campfire if he’s going to be such bad company. He doesn’t want to waste a spliff on a shit night.

“What’s Gimli’s damage?” he asks, because Aragorn is the type of person that seems to pick up people’s business through a bit of quiet observation and probably a lot of psychic osmosis. He knew about Legolas’ secret treehouse out in the woods just by reading his face, so if anyone knows what’s happening with Gimli, it’s him.

He exhales some smoke indulgently.

“Where did Heather Greenleaf spring from?”

Legolas is honestly amazed that Aragorn can even make that reference.

“Fuck off.” He scoffs, “He was in a foul mood, and I don’t believe it’s all down to budget cuts.”

Aragorn sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. Legolas notices with relief that the heat has finally got too much for the beanie to remain on, and is just glad the man’s not going to get heatstroke.

“I don’t know if it’s my place to—” he tries, reluctantly, but Legolas fixes him with a glare.

“Just tell me.”

Aragorn isn’t invested enough to hold his ground past that attempt, so he spills.

“From what I have gathered: messy breakup. Cheating and all sorts.”

The revelation hits Legolas out of left field mostly because he didn’t realise Gimli was even in a relationship in the first place. In fairness, it’s only reasonable that knowing someone three months out of the year means you actually know very little about them, but it’s still surprising that it never came up in the past few summers. Maybe they only met this year, but then why is the breakup so significant to dampen Gimli’s nature so much? The real question is why Legolas is dwelling on this to this frightening extent, but he can’t stop it swirling around his head as ties off the braid and leans forward.

“Shit.” is how he effectively communicates this internal confusion, and he can feel Aragorn side-eyeing him curiously, so turns his face away.

He’s saved by the sound of tires, and a cloud of dust emerging from the treeline that heralds the campers’ arrival. Thank fuck for that.

* * *

 

Dinner passes in a maelstrom of noise. Whilst Frodo figures there's definitely a larger team at work in the kitchens, he's going to give Sam all the credit for the food, and he truly has cooked up a storm. It’s some kind of bean chilli, with rice and criminal amounts of cheese that make Frodo think he’s probably going to have to take up jogging now that he’s not going to be rock climbing to burn off the camp calories. He manages to sneak away from Bilbo to sit with Merry and Pippin, and their yelps of joy at his presence make an already unexpectedly good day a hundred times better. To their delight, they’re in Strider’s cabin for the umpteenth year in a row, and even the counsellor seems pleased about it, though he’d never admit it; the most that passed his face was a wry smile as he ticked them off his list.

The mess hall is suddenly alive and filled with the shouts and laughter of campers catching up after the long months apart, calling across tables and sharing predictions for the summer ahead. Merry and Pippin bet on how many people are going to fall in love with Arwen before the first week is out, and how long it will take Strider to threaten them with strangulation for messing about after lights out. Frodo joins in on this one. He reckons they’ve got all of three days.

After the meal, there’s a fair amount of time for everyone else to settle in and unpack, which Frodo spends sat on the steel kitchen countertops alternately talking Sam’s ear off and helping as much has he can with the monumental stacking of industrial size dishwashers.

The campfire is already abuzz by the time they meander over, but Merry and Pippin have managed to defend a saved section of log for them with unrivalled ferocity, right down at the front. There’s a brief welcome from Elrond, and then Gandalf steps up to remind the campers, amongst other things, to have fun and, with a pointed look at Merry and Pippin, to  remember that horseback archery, no matter how widely spread the rumour grows, is not an activity, and nor should be attempted by any camper at any point. From across the circle, Frodo sees the archery instructor, Legolas, shake his head at the memory of the trauma.

And then, with the formalities finished, Strider pulls out the battered and worn guitar from beside him, and takes to playing. The songs are like sinking into a hot bath; they feel like home and smell like woodsmoke and early morning dew, and the feeling of everyone singing around him makes Frodo feel like a tiny part of something beautifully big.

As the kids begin to drift off to cabins, the music moves from the campfire songs to ones that are softer, more intricate, and move with the blend of Strider’s and Legolas’ voices in ways that lift something in the hollow of his chest .

 

_Sit by the firelight’s glow, tell us an old tale we know._

_Tell of adventure strange and rare, never to change, ever to share._

_Stories we tell will cast their spell, now and for always._

 

Frodo finds his head resting on Sam’s shoulder as he stares into the flames. The warm solidity beside him is comforting and familiar, and he thinks there’s something more than the fire warming him, from the inside this time.

It’s going to be a good summer.

 

**Author's Note:**

> here is the fanart! https://twitter.com/rhymewithrachel/status/1040715079786749952
> 
> the campfire song is 'now and for always' from the lord of the rings musical just do yourself a favour and go listen to the whole soundtrack


End file.
